IX. The Scent of Desert-Water

by Zane Grey

　　SOON the shepherds were left to a quiet unbroken by the whistle of wildmustangs, the whoop of hunters, the ring of iron-shod hoofs on thestones. The scream of an eagle, the bleating of sheep, the bark of acoyote were once more the only familiar sounds accentuating the silenceof the plateau. For Hare, time seemed to stand still. He thought butlittle; his whole life was a matter of feeling from without. He rose atdawn, never failing to see the red sun tip the eastern crags; he glowedwith the touch of cold spring-water and the morning air; he trailedSilvermane under the cedars and thrilled when the stallion, answering hiscall, thumped the ground with hobbled feet and came his way, learning dayby day to be glad at sight of his master. He rode with Mescal behind theflock; he hunted hour by hour, crawling over the fragrant brown mats ofcedar, through the sage and juniper, up the grassy slopes. He rode backto camp beside Mescal, drove the sheep, and put Silvermane to hisfleetest to beat Black Bolly down the level stretch where once the gray,even with freedom at stake, had lost to the black. Then back to camp andfire and curling blue smoke, a supper that testified to busy Piute'sfarmward trips, sunset on the rim, endless changing desert, the wind inthe cedars, bright stars in the blue, and sleep--so time stood still.

　　Mescal and Hare were together, or never far apart, from dawn to night.Until the sheep were in the corral, every moment had its duty, fromcamp-work and care of horses to the many problems of the flock, so thatthey earned the rest on the rim-wall at sundown. Only a touch of handsbridged the chasm between them. They never spoke of their love, ofMescal's future, of Jack's return to hearth; a glance and a smile,scarcely sad yet not altogether happy, was the substance of their dream.Where Jack had once talked about the canyon and desert, he now seldomspoke at all. From watching Mescal he had learned that to see wasenough. But there were moments when some association recalled the pastand the strangeness of the present faced him. Then he was wont toquestion Mescal.

　　"What are you thinking of?" he asked, curiously, interrupting theirsilence. She leaned against the rocks and kept a changeless, tranquil,unseeing gaze on the desert. The level eyes were full of thought, ofsadness, of mystery; they seemed to look afar.

　　Then she turned to him with puzzled questioning look and enigmaticalreply. "Thinking?" asked her eyes. "I wasn't thinking," were her words.

　　"I fancied--I don't know exactly what," he went on. "You looked soearnest. Do you ever think of going to the Navajos?"

　　"No."

　　"Or across that Painted Desert to find some place you seem to know, orsee?"

　　"No."

　　"I don't know why, but, Mescal, sometimes I have the queerest ideas whenI catch your eyes watching, watching. You look at once happy and sad.You see something out there that I can't see. Your eyes are haunted.I've a feeling that if I'd look into them I'd see the sun setting, theclouds coloring, the twilight shadows changing; and then back of that thesecret of it all--of you--Oh! I can't explain, but it seems so."

　　"I never had a secret, except the one you know," she answered. "You askme so often what I think about, and you always ask me when we're here."She was silent for a pause. "I don't think at all till you make me.It's beautiful out there. But that's not what it is to me. I can't tellyou. When I sit down here all within me is--is somehow stilled. Iwatch--and it's different from what it is now, since you've made methink. Then I watch, and I see, that's all."

　　It came to Hare afterward with a little start of surprise that Mescal'spurposeless, yet all-satisfying, watchful gaze had come to be part of hisown experience. It was inscrutable to him, but he got from it a fancy,which he tried in vain to dispel, that something would happen to them outthere on the desert.

　　And then he realized that when they returned to the camp-fire theyseemed freed from this spell of the desert. The blaze-lit circle wasshut in by the darkness; and the immensity of their wild environment,because for the hour it could not be seen, lost its paralyzing effect.Hare fell naturally into a talkative mood. Mescal had developed avivacity, an ambition which contrasted strongly with her silent moods;she became alive and curious, human like the girls he had known in theEast, and she fascinated him the more for this complexity.

　　The July rains did not come; the mists failed; the dews no longerfreshened the grass, and the hot sun began to tell on shepherds andsheep. Both sought the shade. The flowers withered first--all theblue-bells and lavender patches of primrose, and pale-yellow lilies, andwhite thistle-blossoms. Only the deep magenta of cactus and vermilion ofIndian paint-brush, flowers of the sun, survived the heat. Day by daythe shepherds scanned the sky for storm-clouds that did not appear. Thespring ran lower and lower. At last the ditch that carried water to thecorral went dry, and the margin of the pool began to retreat. ThenMescal sent Piute down for August Naab.

　　He arrived at the plateau the next day with Dave and at once ordered thebreaking up of camp.

　　"It will rain some time," he said, "but we can't wait any longer. Dave,when did you last see the Blue Star waterhole?"

　　"On the trip in from Silver Cup, ten days ago. The waterhole was fullthen."

　　"Will there be water enough now?"

　　"We've got to chance it. There's no water here, and no springs on theupper range where we can drive sheep; we've got to go round under theStar."

　　"That's so," replied August. His fears needed confirmation, because hishopes always influenced his judgment till no hope was left. "I wish I hadbrought Zeke and George. It'll be a hard drive, though we've got Jackand Mescal to help."

　　Hot as it was August Naab lost no time in the start. Piute led the trainon foot, and the flock, used to following him, got under way readily.Dave and Mescal rode along the sides, and August with Jack came behind,with the pack-burros bringing up the rear. Wolf circled them all,keeping the flanks close in, heading the lambs that strayed, and, evervigilant, made the drive orderly and rapid.

　　The trail to the upper range was wide and easy of ascent, the first of itwinding under crags, the latter part climbing long slopes. It forkedbefore the summit, where dark pine trees showed against the sky, one forkascending, the other, which Piute took, beginning to go down. Itadmitted of no extended view, being shut in for the most part on theleft, but there were times when Hare could see a curving stream of sheepon half a mile of descending trail. Once started down the flock couldnot be stopped, that was as plain as Piute's hard task. There were timeswhen Hare could have tossed a pebble on the Indian just below him, yetthere were more than three thousand sheep, strung out in line betweenthem. Clouds of dust rolled up, sheets of gravel and shale rattled downthe inclines, the clatter, clatter, clatter of little hoofs, the steadybaa-baa-baa filled the air. Save for the crowding of lambs off thetrail, and a jamming of sheep in the corners, the drive went on withoutmishap. Hare was glad to see the lambs scramble back bleating for theirmothers, and to note that, though peril threatened at every steep turn,the steady down-flow always made space for the sheep behind. He wasglad, too, when through a wide break ahead his eye followed the face of avast cliff down to the red ground below, and he knew the flock would soonbe safe on the level.

　　A blast as from a furnace smote Hare from this open break in the wall.The air was dust-laden, and carried besides the smell of dust and thewarm breath of desert growths, a dank odor that was unpleasant.

　　The sheep massed in a flock on the level, and the drivers spread to theirplaces. The route lay under projecting red cliffs, between the base andenormous sections of wall that had broken off and fallen far out. Therewas no weathering slope; the wind had carried away the smaller stones andparticles, and had cut the huge pieces of pinnacle and tower intohollowed forms. This zone of rim merged into another of strangecontrast, the sloping red stream of sand which flowed from the wall ofthe canyon.

　　Piute swung the flock up to the left into an amphitheatre, and therehalted. The sheep formed a densely packed mass in the curve of the wall.Dave Naab galloped back toward August and Hare, and before he reachedthem shouted out: "The waterhole's plugged!"

　　"What?" yelled his father.

　　"Plugged, filled with stone and sand."

　　"Was it a cave-in?"

　　"I reckon not. There's been no rain."

　　August spurred his roan after Dave, and Hare kept close behind them, tillthey reined in on a muddy bank. What had once been a waterhole was a redand yellow heap of shale, fragments of stones, gravel, and sand. Therewas no water, and the sheep were bleating. August dismounted and climbedhigh above the hole to examine the slope; soon he strode down with giantsteps, his huge fists clinched, shaking his gray mane like a lion.

　　"I've found the tracks! Somebody climbed up and rolled the stones,started the cave-in. Who?"

　　"Holderness's men. They did the same for Martin Cole's waterhole atRocky Point. How old are the tracks?"

　　"Two days, perhaps. We can't follow them. What can be done?"

　　"Some of Holderness's men are Mormons, and others are square fellows.They wouldn't stand for such work as this, and somebody ought to ride inthere and tell them."

　　"And get shot up by the men paid to do the dirty work. No. I won't hearof it. This amounts to nothing; we seldom use this hole, only twice ayear when driving the flock. But it makes me fear for Silver Cup andSeeping Springs."

　　"It makes me fear for the sheep, if this wind doesn't change."

　　"Ah! I had forgotten the river scent. It's not strong to-night. Wemight venture if it wasn't for the strip of sand. We'll camp here andstart the drive at dawn."

　　The sun went down under a crimson veil; a dull glow spread, fan-shaped,upward; twilight faded to darkness with the going down of the wind.August Naab paced to and fro before his tired and thirsty flock.

　　"I'd like to know," said Hare to Dave, "why those men filled up thiswaterhole."

　　"Holderness wants to cut us off from Silver Cup Spring, and this was ahalf-way waterhole. Probably he didn't know we had the sheep upland, buthe wouldn't have cared. He's set himself to get our cattle range andhe'll stop at nothing. Prospects look black for us. Father never givesup. He doesn't believe yet that we can lose our water. He prays andhopes, and sees good and mercy in his worst enemies."

　　"If Holderness works as far as Silver Cup, how will he go to work tosteal another man's range and water?"

　　"He'll throw up a cabin, send in his men, drive in ten thousand steers."

　　"Well, will his men try to keep you away from your own water, or yourcattle?"

　　"Not openly. They'll pretend to welcome us, and drive our cattle away inour absence. You see there are only five of us to ride the ranges, andwe'd need five times five to watch all the stock."

　　"Then you can't stop this outrage?"

　　"There's only one way," said Dave, significantly tapping the black handleof his Colt. "Holderness thinks he pulls the wool over our eyes bytalking of the cattle company that employs him. He's the companyhimself, and he's hand and glove with Dene."

　　"And I suppose, if your father and you boys were to ride over toHolderness's newest stand, and tell him to get off there would be afight."

　　"We'd never reach him now, that is, if we went together. One of us alonemight get to see him, especially in White Sage. If we all rode over tohis ranch we'd have to fight his men before we reached the corrals. Youyourself will find it pretty warm when you go out with us on the ranges,and if you make White Sage you'll find it hot. You're called 'Dene'sspy' there, and the rustlers are still looking for you. I wouldn't worryabout it, though."

　　"Why not, I'd like to know?" inquired Hare, with a short laugh.

　　"Well, if you're like the other Gentiles who have come into Utah youwon't have scruples about drawing on a man. Father says the draw comesnatural to you, and you're as quick as he is. Then he says you can beatany rifle shot he ever saw, and that long-barrelled gun you've got willshoot a mile. So if it comes to shooting--why, you can shoot. If youwant to run--who's going to catch you on that white-maned stallion? Wetalked about you, George and I; we're mighty glad you're well and canride with us."

　　Long into the night Jack Hare thought over this talk. It opened up avista of the range-life into which he was soon to enter. He tried tosilence the voice within that cried out, eager and reckless, for the longrides on the windy open. The years of his illness returned in fancy, thenarrow room with the lamp and the book, and the tears over stories anddreams of adventure never to be for such as he. And now how wonderfulwas life! It was, after all, to be full for him. It was already full.Already he slept on the ground, open to the sky. He looked up at a wildblack cliff, mountain-high, with its windworn star of blue; he felthimself on the threshold of the desert, with that subtle mystery waiting;he knew himself to be close to strenuous action on the ranges, companionof these sombre Mormons, exposed to their peril, making their cause hiscause, their life his life. What of their friendship, their confidence?Was he worthy? Would he fail at the pinch? What a man he must become toapproach their simple estimate of him! Because he had found health andstrength, because he could shoot, because he had the fleetest horse onthe desert, were these reasons for their friendship? No, these were onlyreasons for their trust. August Naab loved him. Mescal loved him; Daveand George made of him a brother. "They shall have my life," he muttered.

　　The bleating of the sheep heralded another day. With the brighteninglight began the drive over the sand. Under the cliff the shade was cooland fresh; there was no wind; the sheep made good progress. But thebroken line of shade crept inward toward the flock, and passed it. Thesun beat down, and the wind arose. A red haze of fine sand eddied aboutthe toiling sheep and shepherds. Piute trudged ahead leading theking-ram, old Socker, the leader of the flock; Mescal and Hare rode atthe right, turning their faces from the sand-filled puffs of wind; Augustand Dave drove behind; Wolf, as always, took care of the stragglers. Anhour went by without signs of distress; and with half the five-mile tripat his back August Naab's voice gathered cheer. The sun beat hotter.Another hour told a different story--the sheep labored; they had to beforced by urge of whip, by knees of horses, by Wolf's threatening bark.They stopped altogether during the frequent hot sand-blasts, and couldnot be driven. So time dragged. The flock straggled out to a longirregular line; rams refused to budge till they were ready; sheep laydown to rest; lambs fell. But there was an end to the belt of sand, andAugust Naab at last drove the lagging trailers out upon the stony bench.

　　The sun was about two hours past the meridian; the red walls of thedesert were closing in; the V-shaped split where the Colorado cut throughwas in sight. The trail now was wide and unobstructed and the distanceshort, yet August Naab ever and anon turned to face the canyon and shookhis head in anxious foreboding.

　　It quickly dawned upon Hare that the sheep were behaving in a way new andsingular to him. They packed densely now, crowding forward, many raisingtheir heads over the haunches of others and bleating. They were not intheir usual calm pattering hurry, but nervous, excited, and continuallyfacing west toward the canyon, noses up.

　　On the top of the next little ridge Hare heard Silvermane snort as he didwhen led to drink. There was a scent of water on the wind. Hare caughtit, a damp, muggy smell. The sheep had noticed it long before, and nowunder its nearer, stronger influence began to bleat wildly, to runfaster, to crowd without aim.

　　"There's work ahead. Keep them packed and going. Turn the wheelers,"ordered August.

　　What had been a drive became a flight. And it was well so long as thesheep headed straight up the trail. Piute had to go to the right toavoid being run down. Mescal rode up to fill his place. Hare took hiscue from Dave, and rode along the flank, crowding the sheep inward.August cracked his whip behind. For half a mile the flock kept to thetrail, then, as if by common consent, they sheered off to the right.With this move August and Dave were transformed from quiet almost tofrenzy. They galloped to the fore, and into the very faces of theturning sheep, and drove them back. Then the rear-guard of the flockcurved outward.

　　"Drive them in!" roared August.

　　Hare sent Silvermane at the deflecting sheep and frightened them intoline.

　　Wolf no longer had power to chase the stragglers; they had to be turnedby a horse. All along the flank noses pointed outward; here and theresheep wilder than the others leaped forward to lead a widening wave ofbobbing woolly backs. Mescal engaged one point, Hare another, Daveanother, and August Naab's roan thundered up and down the constantlybroken line. All this while as the shepherds fought back the sheep, theflight continued faster eastward, farther canyonward. Each side gained,but the flock gained more toward the canyon than the drivers gainedtoward the oasis.

　　By August's hoarse yells, by Dave's stern face and ceaseless swiftaction, by the increasing din, Hare knew terrible danger hung over theflock; what it was he could not tell. He heard the roar of the riverrapids, and it seemed that the sheep heard it with him. They plungedmadly; they had gone wild from the scent and sound of water. Their eyesgleamed red; their tongues flew out. There was no aim to the rush of thegreat body of sheep, but they followed the leaders and the leadersfollowed the scent. And the drivers headed them off, rode them down,ceaselessly, riding forward to check one outbreak, wheeling backward tocheck another.

　　The flight became a rout. Hare was in the thick of dust and din, of theterror-stricken jumping mob, of the ever-starting, ever-widening streamsof sheep; he rode and yelled and fired his Colt. The dust choked him,the sun burned him, the flying pebbles cut his cheek. Once he had aglimpse of Black Bolly in a melee of dust and sheep; Dave's mustangblurred in his sight; August's roan seemed to be double. ThenSilvermane, of his own accord, was out before them all.

　　The sheep had almost gained the victory; their keen noses were pointedtoward the water; nothing could stop their flight; but still the driversdashed at them, ever fighting, never wearying, never ceasing.

　　At the last incline, where a gentle slope led down to a dark break in thedesert, the rout became a stampede. Left and right flanks swung round,the line lengthened, and round the struggling horses, knee-deep in woollybacks, split the streams to flow together beyond in one resistless riverof sheep. Mescal forced Bolly out of danger; Dave escaped the rightflank, August and Hare swept on with the flood, till the horses, sightingthe dark canyon, halted to stand like rocks.

　　"Will they run over the rim ?" yelled Hare, horrified. His voice came tohim as a whisper. August Naab, sweat-stained in red dust, haggard, graylocks streaming in the wind, raised his arms above his head, hopeless.

　　The long nodding line of woolly forms, lifting like the crest of a yellowwave, plunged out and down in rounded billow over the canyon rim. Withdin of hoofs and bleats the sheep spilled themselves over the precipice,and an awful deafening roar boomed up from the river, like the spreadingthunderous crash of an avalanche.

　　How endless seemed that fatal plunge! The last line of sheep, pressingclose to those gone before, and yet impelled by the strange instinct oflife, turned their eyes too late on the brink, carried over by their ownmomentum.

　　The sliding roar ceased; its echo, muffled and hollow, pealed from thecliffs, then rumbled down the canyon to merge at length in the sullen,dull, continuous sound of the rapids.

　　Hare turned at last from that narrow iron-walled cleft, the depth ofwhich he had not seen, and now had no wish to see; and his eyes fell upona little Navajo lamb limping in the trail of the flock, headed for thecanyon, as sure as its mother in purpose. He dismounted and seized it tofind, to his infinite wonder and gladness, that it wore a string and bellround its neck. It was Mescal's pet.